


capitulation

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s10e12 About A Boy, Established Relationship, M/M, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 09:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: When they don't manage to turn Dean back into his adult self, Sam spends a month researching how to fix it.





	capitulation

**Author's Note:**

> written as my first post for the Sunday Morning Porn Club on Livejournal; accordingly, this is... mostly porn.
> 
> also written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, for the 'size difference' square.

That last fight—Sam’s head was all scrambled, his ears ringing, but he was aware enough to panic when Dean bull-rushed Hansel. _No_ , he thought, but even as his mouth was opening and he rolled staggering up to his knees—Hansel went down, a knife sticking sickeningly out of his chest, and the witch was so shocked that Sam managed to muscle up to his feet and shove her straight into her own stupid oven, Dean clanging the door shut between them and panting, skinny little shoulders heaving in his silly borrowed hoodie. It wasn’t until afterward that they realized they didn’t have a way to turn Tina or Dean back, because the hex bag had burned with the witch, and they didn’t have a way to remake it.

Sam’s still not sure they should have let Tina go off alone. Driving away from the bus station, he’d worried— _a fourteen year old, on her own?_ he’d said, and Dean had looked at him with those unlined barely-familiar eyes and said _who are you calling fourteen?_ and he meant it like a joke but it wasn’t, really, and Sam had shut up, tightening his hands on the wheel. They were already listening to the top-40 station, with Dean lightly drumming his hands on his knees, Sam driving because his legs were the ones that reached the pedals. No need to make it any weirder than it already was.

*

His phone beeps, again. He turns a page, ignoring it in favor of curses from the fourteenth century. The library's quiet and he's too busy, he can't be distracted, not now. As though the thought fathered it, there's another beep, and he closes his eyes and wipes a hand down his face, takes a deep breath, before he returns to the text. He's sure there's going to be something in here—it's a whole volume that's meant to be about transformation, he knows he can find at least a seed of something that will help. It feels like he's been through half the library. If he needs to, he'll read the entire thing.

He's lost again in the grimoire—apparently some ancient witch really had turned someone into a frog, at one point, which isn't exactly helpful but is fascinating—when something soft hits him in the head and he jolts upright, batting it ineffectively away.

"Smooth," Dean says. He's leaning in the door that leads down to the bedrooms, a mulish expression on his face. Even with repeated exposure it's still a shock: his too-high voice, his body so small in one of his larger self's black undershirts, hanging on him like a dress.

"Did you throw socks at me?" Sam says, too late. Pointlessly, since he can see them—a neat balled missile, now resting innocently on the table.

"I wouldn't have to resort to sock-throwing if you'd just answer your texts," Dean says. He folds his arms over his skinny chest, jaw set. "It's like two in the morning, Sammy. Come on."

Sam slides his phone over the library table, wakes up the screen. Four unread texts and, wow, yeah, it's a quarter past two. Now that Dean mentions it his eyes are aching, though it's nothing in comparison to his throbbing head. He pushes the grimoire a little away, under the lamp, and digs one thumb into the arch of his eye socket. "I've been reading," he says, trying to massage the hurt he can't quite reach.

There's a sigh, and then a moment of quiet. "No shit, Sherlock," he hears, a lot closer, and then smaller hands comb through the hair on either side of his head, Dean's slender fingers circling gently at his temples, then over the ridge of bone just behind his ears, where the tension always seems to gather.

It feels—a little incredible, a little painful. Sam grunts, letting his head droop, and Dean slides in close so that Sam's shoulder is resting against his soft stomach. He's so soft. "Okay," Sam says, finally. "Bed."

"Hell yes," Dean says. He wraps both hands around one of Sam's wrists, tugging, and Sam pretends like it does anything while he heaves himself to his feet. His back cracks, audibly, and Dean wrinkles his nose, tilting his head way back to mock: "Too bad about those old joints, huh, Methuselah?"

Sam shakes his head. "Too bad about—" but he can't really think of anything, and he just sighs. "Whatever, I'm too tired."

Immediately there's a slim arm around his waist, Dean tucked up under his armpit. "This is just sad," he says, with a tut, but he tugs Sam along and Sam goes—down the steps, into the halls, past the room Dean used to sleep in half the time to the one they always share, now. The lamps are already on and the blankets are turned down, and so Sam just has to shove off his boots one at a time and drop down to the mattress with a bounce, and he goes down like a tree falling, flat on his back. He hasn't gotten enough sleep in about—well, in his entire adult life, but it's been worse in the month since Dean's been like this. The energy's sucking out of him, like water disappearing down a drain. Maybe he'll just never move again.

"Oh, no," Dean says, "not this again—" and then little hands are at his belt, working it open deftly, and then his fly, and he manages to help just enough to lift his ass up and then Dean's tugging his jeans off his legs, shoving ineffectively at him until he cooperates enough to drag himself properly up onto the mattress. "There we go," he hears. The blankets get tugged up, and then there's the little pat of Dean's feet on the concrete floor, the light dimming on the other side of Sam's eyelids as the lamps go off one by one, and then a slim warm body slips under the covers and curls up right against his chest. His arm curls automatically around it, even if it's not the right shape. "Good night, Sammy," whispers an almost-familiar voice, and then he's out.

Six a.m. comes way too soon. His phone chirps out its alarm, on the bedside table where Dean must have put it, and Sam flails an arm out and silences it, the usual headache throbbing at the back of his skull. For once, Dean wasn't disturbed enough to bitch. Sam scrubs his free hand over his face and then back through his hair, trying to wake up, but less than four hours of sleep is tough. Tougher now than it used to be. Bright light from the hall filters in through the grate above his door, enough to see by, and he blinks at that, thinking about facing his day, and carefully stretching out his legs. As he moves, there's a little mumble. He smiles, involuntarily, and looks down.

When he was an adult, Dean usually wanted some space in his sleep. On the occasions when they actually _slept_ together, they might start out touching but they'd usually end up on their own sides—for heat regulation, mostly, but also so they didn't accidentally maul each other. In his younger body, Dean's—well, _clingy_ is the best word for it, though Sam hasn’t had the courage yet to point that out while he's awake. He's got Sam's arm wrapped in both of his, his face tucked down against Sam's bicep. Sam traces his thumb down the white smooth curve of Dean's neck, down and down along the skinny line of his shoulder where it's poking out of his shirt. He drags a light touch along the back of his arm, around the sharp turn of his elbow, down his slender unmarked forearm to his hand, which he pries gently off of his own skin. There's another little noise, Dean protesting in his sleep, and Sam ducks in and kisses the back of Dean's hand, and then the tender white space below his ear, and finishes extracting himself from their bed.

He's in a fresh set of clothes, sitting in his desk chair tugging on his boots, when Dean turns over and finds him gone and then sits straight up in bed, eyes bleary but worried. "Morning," Sam says, so that Dean looks right at him. This is new, too—although, maybe it isn't, and Dean just used to be better at hiding it. He shoves his heel into his boot, rocking back and forth to settle the fit, and smiles at Dean's bedhead. "Aren't teenagers supposed to get like ten hours of sleep a night?"

Dean frowns at him, digging the heel of his hand into his eye. Just like a little kid. "I'd be able to if you weren't kicking up a racket at all times of the morning," he says, and it's so weird grumpy-old-man Dean that Sam's heart turns over.

Sam misses that version so much that sometimes it feels like he can hardly take it. He blinks down at his own knees, just for a moment, then starts buttoning his shirt. "I'll make coffee," he says, after a few too-long seconds. "If you're planning on actually getting up."

He gets a long groan, and when he looks up Dean has flopped back onto the bed, starfishing out into all the space now that he has it for himself. "No, I'll make the coffee," Dean says, sounding put-upon. "If I don't want your crappy sludge." He sighs, dramatically enough that Sam rolls his eyes, and then his face changes and he squirms, sliding his hands below the sheet. "Ugh."

What—oh. Sam swallows. "Wet dream?" It's not the first time.

Dean's nose wrinkles and he shrugs. "Comes with the territory, right?" He pauses, and grins. "Heh. Comes."

"Dude," Sam says, mildly, but Dean's ears are going red even as he waggles his eyebrows at Sam, and he lets it go. He remembers the mortification, from being that age. Not fair that Dean gets to experience it twice over. "Just don't get it all over, go take a shower."

"Spoilsport," Dean says, and then shoves himself up, twisting himself crosslegged onto the mattress. "I guess I'll find you in the library, right?"

"Yeah," Sam says. He stands up, stretching his hands up to the ceiling for just a second, and then comes to grab his phone from the bedside table. He doesn't miss how Dean watches him, or the way he licks his lips. It's not really a surprise when a little hand catches his wrist and tugs him to stay, and he pauses, just because he knows it kills Dean that he can't budge Sam anymore, not at all.

Dean's eyes are fixed in the middle of Sam's chest. Sam waits, but Dean doesn't say anything. After a few seconds, Sam bumps his knee against the edge of the bed, and Dean's eyes flick up to his, and then away. On Sam's wrist, his hand's so small his fingers can't even meet, and Sam covers it with his other hand, hiding it away. "We'll find something," Sam says, quietly. "I promise." Dean nods, but doesn't look up, and Sam leans down and kisses his temple, where his skin's so fine and soft. He smells like their bed. Dean's hand clenches on Sam's wrist, a breath sucked in through his teeth, but Sam disengages, moves away, because if he doesn't go now— "Shower," he says again, and Dean groans and drops back down to the mattress, but Sam's already escaping down the hall and so he can't hear it if anything disparaging is thrown his direction.

He does make coffee, because he's not going to make it if he has to wait for one of Dean's hour-long showers. All of the books they've been working through are stacked in huge piles on the library tables, in vague order of _maybe helpful_ to _probably not helpful_ to _oh, god, let anything work_ , and he just stands at the steps down to the war room staring at them for a while.

He wants his brother back. It's not that Dean's really gone. All of that adult personality and memory and life has been poured into this little vessel and he's still Sam's, in almost every way. Even so. He'd be fooling himself, fooling both of them, if he pretended like everything was the same, that it didn't matter that Dean was now his _little brother_ , in more ways than one.

The Mark's gone, or hidden. That's the one good thing. Dean's uncertain now, in ways Sam can't remember from them being kids together—but then, how would he have known. He does his best to hide it—he's always going to put on a cocky front, he truly wouldn't be Dean if he didn't—but something about living in this now-unfamiliar body has totally obliterated his poker face. Not to mention his self-control. Sam bites his lips between his teeth, finally dragging himself across the floor to his table, putting the coffee down and tugging the book he was reading last night close. Better frog-transformation curses than thinking about Dean's teenage body barely able to contain all his more-adult impulses. Better than wondering what he'd dreamed about.

*

Sam takes a shower that night, after the dinner Dean made him eat and after his laptop was forcibly taken away. Not like Sam couldn't have overpowered the little shit, but his eyes were starting to get that burning sensation and, okay, maybe it was time to take a break. He stands still under the water for a few minutes, soaking up the heat and pressure in his tight shoulders. He could kill for a hunt right now. It'd be a great break, if only to get out and get a win for once, but there's no way they can hunt with Dean like this. Even Dean agreed to that.

He finishes up, dries off, wraps the towel around his waist to head back to his room. Maybe Dean will want to watch a movie, or something, although if it's another one of those musicals in the high school Sam might break into the whiskey stash.

His room's dark when he gets there and he flicks on a lamp, and there's Dean—already on his side of the bed on top of the blanket, in one of those so-big undershirts with his skinny legs curled up almost to his chest. His eyes are closed, his lashes casting a long shadow on his cheekbones. Sam licks his lips, sinks down to sit on the bed. He puts a hand on Dean's cheek, soft and stubble-free. Dean's eyes slide open. With the room half-dark it's hard to see what expression's in them, but he holds still for a few seconds, long enough for Sam to drag his thumb over the perfect soft line of his cheekbone—and then he sits up, silent, pushing Sam's arm out of the way, and then just like that he swings a leg over and Sam's got a lapful of brother.

His hands go to Dean's hips, balancing him automatically, even as he leans back. He opens his mouth, doesn't know what he's going to say beyond _wait_ —but Dean's kissing him, already, leaned in with his eyes closed and his mouth so soft, gentle presses of his tongue, his arms curling around Sam's neck so slim and needy and _small_ —

Sam pulls back, lifts his chin up and breathes open-mouthed at the ceiling. "Wait, wait," he gets out.

Dean kisses his bared throat, just once. "Come on, Sammy," he says, voice low. As low as he can manage.

He puts a hand in Sam's hair, combs through it from the nape out, just as Sam likes it, and it's just a weird and awful reminder of what Sam's missing, of what he can't have, and Sam catches Dean's wrist in his much, much bigger hand and says, "No, Dean. We can't."

When he finally looks down Dean's staring at him, his eyes huge and dark and—and shining, _shit_ , but Dean just scrambles awkwardly backwards off Sam's lap, gets his feet on the floor and yanks his arm back toward himself, and Sam lets go immediately, it would be cruel to do otherwise. He wants to say—anything, _something_ , but Dean just blinks at him and then turns on his heel and disappears out the door down the hallway, silent. Sam's left alone with his disheveled towel and his half-interested dick and queasy worry in the pit of his stomach. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. It's not fair. None of it is remotely, remotely fair.

*

One in the morning, and Sam's lying alone in bed when the door to his room swings open. He's wearing his night clothes, now, curled on his side on the farthest edge of the mattress. Not sleeping, there was never any chance of that, and he opens his eyes. No sense in even trying to pretend.

Dean leaves the door cracked a few inches, the hallway light spilling in an angle straight across Sam's ribs, and he stands haloed in it for a long moment, looking at the bed. Sam swallows. Dean's still wearing just one of those big undershirts and he's just—not a stranger, never that, but even after all these days and long weird nights Sam's not used to it. When he finally steps forward, Sam tugs down the blanket, makes a space, and Dean crawls in and buries his head in Sam's chest, bony knees bumping up against Sam's thighs, fists curled into Sam's sleep-shirt. Sam wraps his arm around him, like he always does, his hand spread out wide on Dean's back.

They breathe together quietly, for a minute. Finally, Dean says, "I couldn't sleep."

"Me either." Sam curls his fingers, lets his knuckles brush back and forth between Dean's sharp little shoulderblades.

Dean sighs, a warm puff through Sam's shirt, and wriggles closer. When he speaks again it's muffled, his forehead against Sam's collarbone and his lips moving against his chest. "Sammy, I—I gotta ask you something," he mumbles, "and this is one of those things where, if you ever bring it up again later, we're on ten acres of mystical hidden land and no one would ever find your body, you get me?"

Sam smiles, glad Dean can't see it. "I got it."

"Okay." He takes a deep breath, his back expanding under Sam's hand, and then says, very quietly, "Are you ever gonna touch me again?"

Sam stops breathing, for a second.

"It's just," Dean continues, his voice small, "we've been—it's been a month, and I know it's weird, but you—you won't even—"

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean stops like Sam slapped him, his shoulders curling in under Sam's hand. Sam brushes his thumb over the back of Dean's neck, trying to think. "You're just—you're a kid."

He gets a little fist to the chest for that and Dean pushes back a few inches, glaring up at Sam. "I am _not_ ," he says, and then makes a face. He thumps Sam's chest again, though, his brows drawn together. "I'm not," he says, more softly.

Sam shakes his head. "I know," he says. He puts his hand over Dean's, wrapping his fingers all the way around Dean's fist, and shakes it lightly. "But—you are, too. Come on, you know it's different."

Dean drags his knees under him and sits up, his hip slotted right against Sam's. He doesn't take his hand back and Sam doesn't release it, so it's a little weight on his chest, rising with his breath when he turns onto his back. Dean's frowning, looking down at Sam's stomach, or through it. "Is it—gross?" he says. "That I'm like a kid?"

Sam takes a deep breath. "It's not—" he starts, and then shakes his head. He's not an idiot; it hasn't been lost on him that this would be a problem. In the stripe of light from the hallway he can see that Dean's blushing, that baby skin showing off all his secrets. His hair's got that golden tinge to it he only gets when he's been in the sun too long, and his mouth's a perfect pink bow—even prettier now than when he's an adult, Sam can admit that. More than that, he's Dean. He's Sam's. Sam rubs a thumb over the back of Dean's hand. "Okay, my turn to say something no one's ever, ever going to bring up again," Sam says. Dean looks up, face still set in a frown. "Pain of death, right?" Dean's mouth turns up at the corner, and Sam reaches up and touches it, just barely, and is honest. "You're ridiculously beautiful, Dean. You always have been, no matter what."

Dean stares at him, mouth parted. Eventually, he croaks out, "You gonna write me a poem or something?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Pain of death," he repeats. "I'm just saying, I've never been disgusted. Even when you're being a jackass."

After a few seconds, Dean nods, his face flaming pink as he looks away.

There's a moment of quiet, Dean chewing his lip and Sam watching him. "I just keep thinking," Dean says, finally. He drags one knee up, folding his thigh against his chest, not looking at Sam. "If we've got to wait four years for me to be legal, that's a whole lot of wasted time."

He smiles, but his voice has gone all thick and Sam's chest clenches. He sits up, finally, puts a hand on Dean's back. "It's not—" He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. Admits it to himself. "I just don't want to hurt you."

He can imagine it. Has imagined it, too many times, in shameful moments alone. He'd hoped that Dean was too nervous and weirded-out to ask for it, when Sam was too worried about what he might give. Turns out Dean's been worried about something else.

"Sammy," Dean says, still thick but now with an edge of disbelief. "What do you call this?"

Sam huffs, opens his eyes. Dean's watching him, face set and miserable, and Sam sighs. Gives in. "We're idiots," he says.

" _You're_ an idiot," Dean mumbles, predictably, because as always he's the master of the comeback—and that makes it easier, that no matter what shape he is he will always be Sam's absolute dork of a brother, for Sam to take a deep breath and lean in, to knock Dean's chin up with a curled knuckle and kiss him.

Dean lets out a startled tiny noise, high in the back of his throat. It takes just a second before he kisses back, fiercely, fumbling himself closer with his arms thrown around Sam's neck. Sam takes a little knee to the ribs and grunts, but he catches Dean by the waist and lifts him bodily, easily, settling him down in Sam's lap again with his knees tucked on either side of Sam's hips. It shouldn't be so easy—but it is, it is, and Sam keeps his eyes closed and leans back against the headboard, hands bracketing Dean's tiny waist. Dean wondered if Sam thought he was _gross_ , which is just so boneheadedly _Dean_ that Sam could shake him, but. He knows his brother, and he knows why. He licks softly over Dean's lower lip and Dean sighs, melts against him almost relieved, his hands curling into Sam's shirt, and—maybe the body's unfamiliar, but Dean needing reassurance isn't. Sam knows how to do this.

Sam slips a hand under the billowy t-shirt, pets slowly up and down Dean's spine. Dean wriggles, his hips arching, and he breaks away from Sam's mouth to pant, breath coming hot against Sam's throat. "Jeez, that's all it takes?" Sam says, mildly.

"I'm so gonna kick your ass," Dean says, voice hitching.

He shudders when Sam's thumb drags harder down to the small of his back, and Sam remembers—and smiles, and pulls one of Dean's arms from around his neck and pushes his hand down between them. Dean looks up, confused, and Sam kisses his cheek and says, soft, "You're fourteen, man. How many do you think we can get out of you?" He lets his fingers graze under the waistband on Dean's little briefs, his middle finger finding tailbone and pushing ever-so-slightly down, and Dean stares at him wide-eyed and then clutches at himself, hidden under the trailing hem of his shirt, and Sam leans down to kiss him and lets Dean bite his lip and Dean comes for the first time just like that, clenching and gasping, his hips jerking forward and his whole body shaking.

Dean slumps against Sam's chest for a minute, breathing hard, until Sam shifts and picks him up, laying him out on the mattress. He stretches out at Dean's side, propped up on one elbow and laying his hand on Dean's skinny chest. Even through the t-shirt he can feel the pan of his breastbone, the soft ridge of his ribs as he breathes. He stretches out his fingers, as wide as he can, and—he can span Dean's whole chest, with some room to spare.

"What's it like?" Sam says, soft. Dean opens his eyes, pink-cheeked, questioning, and Sam drags his thumb in slow rough circles over the hard little point of Dean's nipple through the t-shirt, watches Dean's mouth drop open and his breathing go deep again. "It's got to be weird."

"It's freakin' embarrassing," Dean says, slinging his arm over his face. "I'm on a damn hair-trigger."

Sam remembers fourteen, more or less. All those tangled up hormones and a body that barely knew what to do with them, and it was probably a lot worse for him than it was for most people, who likely _weren't_ pining after their big brothers. The lack of control combined with an adult's mind, experienced but displaced--hard even to imagine. He knows Dean, though. "What's your record?" he says, and when Dean peeks out from under his elbow, confused, Sam deliberately glances down at Dean's still-covered crotch. "Dude, you spend a lot of time in the shower."

He gets a kick in the shin for that, not that there's any real power behind it. "Shut up," Dean says, while Sam sniggers, and he hides his face again. Sam goes back to toying with his nipple, watching Dean bite his lip at the feeling, and then eventually Dean licks his lips and says, "…Three."

Sam takes a deep breath. "I bet we can beat that," he says, quiet, offering, and Dean pulls his arm away and looks at Sam, eyes wide. Sam shrugs one shoulder. "If you want."

There's a little pause, while Dean just blinks. "Can't hurt to try," he says, eventually, his voice cracking in the middle. Sam smiles at him, rubbing gently along his chest again, and dips down for another kiss.

Between them, they get Sam's shirt off, and Dean can't seem to keep his hands off of Sam's bare skin, his chest, petting over the patch of hair in the center while Sam kisses him, keeping it soft, at least for now. He slides under Dean's shirt to return the favor, skimming up his soft slender tummy to roll the right nipple between two fingers. When he was an adult it was this one that was more sensitive—and that might be true now, too, but really it just seems like anything would work, because Dean moans out loud into Sam's mouth, the skin drawn so tight it's wrinkled under Sam's fingers. Sam kisses him again, and again, soft smoochy presses against the open soft curve of his lower lip, and pinches his nipple as gently as he can, and Dean actually starts to shake, his skin quivering, barely controlled. Jesus—five minutes and he's there again. Sam might wish things were different, but this is incredible.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, curling his fingers over Sam's shoulder.

Sam kisses him again and carefully eases closer, holding his weight up on his elbow and sliding his leg between Dean's and getting his thigh right up against the stiff little boner he can feel, damp in his briefs. Dean's breath hitches and he makes a choked sound, in the back of his throat, and Sam slides his other hand down to Dean's hip and tugs, and he says, "Go on, come on," down against Dean's soft hair, and Dean humps up against the weight of Sam's leg like he was given a direct order. His arms go around Sam's back, fingernails denting little crescents into his skin. Sam slides his hand up his side, bunching the t-shirt up, and pinches his nipple again, harder this time, and Dean wraps his leg around Sam's and buries his face in Sam's neck, moaning through clenched teeth, and it's not long at all after that with his hips stroking rhythmically up before he stutters and comes, again, holding on so tight to Sam that he lifts himself clear off the bed. Sam slides his free hand under his back to hold him, pressing his lips against the top of his head while he shudders.

"Goddamn," Dean says, voice wobbly.

His face is hot, pressed against Sam's chest, and Sam would bet money that he's blushing again. Sam kisses his hair and eases him down, rubbing slow comforting circles over his back. Finally, Dean unlocks his arms and slumps, head hitting the pillow so Sam can finally see his face, and he's—yes, beet red, his lips bitten and dark, his shoulder popped all the way out of the too-big shirt, his chest heaving. His eyes are scrunched shut, his eyelashes damp. "Okay?" Sam says.

Dean nods, immediately, but he's still red when he finally looks up at Sam. "It's just—" He drops his eyes, shakes his head.

His insecurities aren't usually so obvious. Not that Sam can't read them a mile away. He slides over to the side a little so he's not looming so much, but he leaves his leg heavy between Dean's. "Hot?" he says. He traces a finger along Dean's collarbone, raising his eyebrows when Dean darts a look at him. "Just really, really hot?"

Dean huffs, but there's a smile curved into the corner of his mouth, too. "Yeah, I'm a regular Pam Anderson over here," he says, rolling his eyes.

"Mm, no." Sam drags his palm down to rest over Dean's flat chest. "Hers are fake, I bet. I like the real deal better." He gets a snort for that, but Dean ducks his head, somehow shy. Sam taps his thumb in the center of his chest, decides to be direct. "Is this part of the curse, too?" he says. "You don't believe me?"

"It's not that," Dean says. He bites his lip, drags his teeth over it. "Just—feel like I'm not doing my part, is all." Sam frowns and Dean glances up in time to see it, and he shifts, awkward. "When I'm— _me_ , I know what I can do for you. What you like."

Sam shakes his head. "Dean," he says, and then—screw it, he scoops his arm around Dean and rolls them, again, so that he's flat on his back with Dean sprawled over his chest, huffing _what the fuck_. Sam grabs him by the hips and lifts him up again, seats his slight weight right over Sam's own dick, and Dean lands with both hands flat on Sam's chest, blinking. "I like getting you off," Sam says, slow like Dean's stupid. Sometimes he is. Sam's only half-hard, hasn't paid any attention to himself, but he knows Dean can feel it from the way he squirms in Sam's grip. "Or did you forget the last—what, fifteen years."

The line of light cuts right across Dean's shoulder and the rest of him's in shadow, but Sam can still tell he's blushing. "Guess not," he croaks, finally.

"There we go," Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes, but he also drags his knees up into a more comfortable position, his skinny thighs tucked along Sam's sides. Sam tucks one hand behind his head, and drops the other down to hold onto Dean's thigh, keep him grounded. His hand spans the whole of it. Dean seems focused on Sam's chest, tracing little patterns over his pecs, and Sam watches him, thinking.

"Did I ever tell you," Sam says, "about the first time I had sex?"

Dean huffs a little laugh. "What is this, sleepover time?" he says, but he looks interested. "Wasn't it—that dorky girl in Pocatello, what was her name."

Sam squeezes his thigh, the soft barely-there muscle twitching under his hand. "Emily Short. Jerk." He'd been almost-eighteen, nervous as hell, and she'd been just as nervous, letting him into her parents' empty house and telling him they _had to be quick_. "Like that was going to be a problem," he says.

Dean laughs. "Well, she got her money's worth," he says, and he's grinning again. Perfect.

"Same here," Sam says, pointedly, and Dean shakes his head but he comes easy when Sam tugs at his shirt, and fits their lips together.

Dean's more confident, now, at last, kissing slow and not so desperate. His body shifts, squirming a little against Sam, and he pulls back, nose wrinkling. "Gross," he whispers, glancing down, and Sam doesn't know what he's talking about for a second until he shifts his hips again.

"I'm not really expecting modesty," Sam says. Dean bites his lip and nods, lifting off of Sam. He kneels on the bed and shoves his briefs down, and even in the dim light Sam can see they're soaked, the grey gone nearly black. Dean wrestles them down, the wet cotton fighting him, and kicks them finally off the side of the bed, his shirt still falling down past his hips. He twists the hem, for a second, looking down.

"Come here," Sam says, lifting up on his elbows. Dean shuffles over on his knees, and Sam helps him swing back into place. It's easy enough to get his own hands on Dean's shirt and watch his eyes, waiting for a real protest that doesn’t come, and then to lift it up, Dean's hair ruffling up when it drags off over his head. Sam drops the shirt over the side of the bed and squeezes Dean's thigh again, making sure he's okay, before he looks down.

This—okay. He draws in a deep breath. Dean's—small. All over. This body's in the middle of puberty, and so it just makes sense that he's got—a neat little package, his sac small and smooth, no hair anywhere, his dick flushed and pink and perfect, and… small. Sam has to look back up and finds Dean looking straight at him, almost challenging, blushing all over. There's absolutely nothing Sam can say that won't seem condescending.

"At least you're used to having the smallest dick in the family," Sam says.

Dean's jaw drops, and the punch to the chest is totally worth it. "I will murder you," Dean promises, and Sam grins and gets him in a headlock, lets Dean struggle and squirm over him, warm and slight and close. There's absolutely no contest, although Dean lands another punch to Sam's ribs, a little thud that actually kind of hurts. Sam lets him struggle a little more and then reaches down with his free hand and smacks his bare ass, once, which startles Dean so much that he yelps.

"It still works, right?" Sam says, and Dean props himself up on his hands just to glare, but his face changes when Sam slides a careful hand down between them, skimming over Dean's belly before he rubs his thumb over damp, tender skin. He watches Dean's eyes, cups the whole warm thing in his palm, his fingers curling behind with plenty to spare. Dean shivers and bites his lips closed, shifting against Sam's hand, and already he's starting to stiffen up, just from a touch. "See," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"You're an asshole," Dean says, but he doesn't move away.

Sam smiles, rubs a little harder, watches Dean squirm while he fills up, a hard little line against Sam's palm, his sac still close to his body. He presses his fingers behind, just by habit, and Dean jerks against him. "Too much?" Sam says, freezing.

Dean shakes his head, eyes closed. After a hesitation, Sam pushes his fingers further, sliding over the smooth hairless muscle and then to—god, he's soft, everywhere, even here. It's Sam's turn to close his eyes, his dick lurching inside his pajama pants.

"Oh," Dean says, voice distant, and there's a little smear of wet against Sam's palm when Dean rocks his hips. Dean's hands drag down Sam's chest, tuck into the waistband of his pants and tug. "Sammy," he says, urging, lifting up on his knees, and Sam raises his hips off the bed and lets Dean tug his pants down past his ass.

Dean settles right back down again, his thighs snug around Sam's hips. "Jeez," he says, and Sam makes himself look, while Dean wraps a hand around Sam's dick—finally hard, all the way, and Dean's fingers meet around it but—only barely. Sam sucks in a shaky breath. It shouldn't be as hot as it is, but his stomach lurches anyway. Dean wraps his other hand higher up, his thumb dragging over the head, looking fascinated, before he bites his bottom lip, clearly considering something. He scoots forward a few inches on his knees, tilts his hips, and pushes his dick right up against Sam's where it's laying on his stomach, their balls smushed together. Sam pushes up on an elbow to watch. Dean's dick is—half the size of his, maybe less, a tender pink while Sam's is dark and getting darker, and he slides his fingers underneath Dean's and gathers them both up in his hand, pressing them together so that Dean's hips flinch, his little knob all stiff and dragging against Sam's, and Dean says, "Oh my god," breathy and high, and then, "D'you think it'll fit?"

It takes Sam a second. "No," he says—the image flicking through his head, Dean stretched and groaning, his adult body shuddering under what Sam was doing to him. This Dean has to spread wide just to get his legs around Sam's waist. "God, Dean. No, no way."

Dean lurches sideways, lifting off with the soft inside of his thigh dragging deliciously against Sam's length, stretching out as far as he can to haul open the bedside drawer. He comes back with the lube, unused for way too long, and smacks it into Sam's chest. "Can't hurt to try," he says again, with a little grin.

Sam covers his hand, the bottle slightly tacky on his chest. "It really can," he says, and Dean's grin fades. He hooks his fingers around Dean's arm, tugs him, and Dean comes down and accepts a kiss, soft. Sam keeps him close, sliding his arm over Dean's naked back. "I'll do anything you want," Sam says, to the pink soft curve of Dean's ear. "But I'm not going to hurt you. Don't ask me to."

Dean swallows, audibly. Sam turns them onto their sides, keeping Dean close, his little dick smearing against Sam's abs, Sam's arm pillowing his head. "I just—" Dean says, voice small. "I miss—" He cuts himself off, his hand pressed low on Sam's stomach.

Sam presses his mouth into Dean's hair. He does, too. After all of last year, with its miseries and mistrust, they'd been making up time, coming together and being close. Making promises, no matter if they couldn't keep them. In some ways they've never been closer than they have been, these last few months. The bare stretch of Dean's arm is almost a mockery—all Sam could want, if only he could face having it.

He slides his hand down Dean's narrow back to the slight soft rise of his ass, squeezing lightly. "Come here," he says, and hitches Dean closer, pulling his thigh up and over Sam's waist. The lube's waiting on the bed behind him and he cracks it open one handed, squeezing it directly into the shallow valley of Dean's ass, and Dean sucks in a sharp breath and looks right up at Sam, his hand clutching Sam's side. Sam holds his eyes, watching for any kind of discomfort, and drags two fingers down to smear the slick all over, catching and rubbing over the hole. Dean's mouth drops open, his nails digging into Sam's ribs. "Okay?" Sam says and Dean nods, squirming closer so his dick drags against Sam's stomach, and with that Sam pushes gently with his middle finger, breaching ever-so-slowly.

It's tight—god, excruciatingly tight, even with Dean as turned-on as he is, two orgasms in the bank. Dean makes a low noise, his back arching into it, and Sam carefully presses deeper, his hand splayed over Dean's ass. It's not hard at all to find his prostate after years of practice and Dean moans outright, eyes squeezing shut. He's so easy, his body responding just like always, the hottest thing Sam's ever seen even on a miniature scale. He licks his lips and rocks his finger gently in and out again, makes Dean shudder, and says, "More?" as though it were even a question.

Dean moves, though—hitches his hips back against Sam's hand, makes room between them, and slides a hot little touch down past his leg to Sam's dick, wraps his hand around it, makes Sam hiss. "You, too," he says, almost nonsensically. Sam shakes his head and Dean interrupts before he can say anything, says, "You don't have to—just let me, okay, let me—keep going—" and so Sam licks his lips and fingers Dean, sliding gently in and out and making Dean break out in goosebumps all over, and Dean breathes open-mouthed and hot against Sam's throat and awkwardly jerks Sam's dick with a damp, too-small hand, the head glancing occasionally against Dean's soft thighs and making Sam sweat with urges he can't give in to. Dean's other arm is curled in tight between them and he splays his hand over Sam's chest, clutching tight, and Sam ducks down and feeds his tongue into Dean's mouth, fills him up. Dean groans, kisses back, and he's just a sleek sweating gorgeous little thing in Sam's arms, responsive and arching and so close to perfect, and Sam pulls back his one finger and slowly works in two and watches Dean's eyes go dark and startled, and just like that he comes again, stretched around Sam's knuckles, his little dick pulsing smears of wet over Sam's stomach, whole body clenching. He squeezes Sam's dick tight just under the head, gasping, and then lets go and darts that hand back to cover Sam's on his ass, whispers _keep going_ hot into Sam's face—and Sam does, pushes his fingers in deeper on the slick of too much lube and keeps rocking them, a demanding in-and-out that's loosening Dean up, his knuckles popping through the resistance easier and easier.

Dean whines, overstimulated, his hand still locked futilely around Sam's wrist. "God," he moans out, and again, and then in a stuttery jolted-out voice he says _Sammy_ and _please_ and _come on, come on_ —and then he shoves at Sam's shoulder, awkwardly, and Sam's so focused he doesn't fold like he's been trying to remember to, and Dean claws his fingers in and pushes hard and says, "Come _on_ ," almost desperate. Sam blinks and falls onto his back, Dean shoving to help, and Dean climbs back on and pushes his wet limp tiny prick up against Sam's throbbing one and grabs Sam's hand, pushes it back behind himself. "Keep going," he says, voice thick, and Sam curves his arm over Dean's back and shoves right back in where it's loose now and ungodly hot, finding his spot and curving against it, and Dean leans down with his one arm braced stiff on the mattress and grinds himself against Sam, tight and wet and messy, one hand pressing Sam's dick tight against his own stomach. Sam grabs his hip with his free hand, holding on. It feels—god, it feels good, Dean rubbing him all over, his balls clenching up under his weight. Sam lifts his hips into it, ass clenching like he's fucking into something, and Dean's jolted up but pushes back, grinding down like Sam's inside him for real, and Sam curls his fingers in tight and cruel and Dean's jaw drops and he shudders, clenching tight around Sam's knuckles and his body practically rippling even though nothing's coming out of his dick, and—oh, christ, "Did you just come," Sam says, panting, and Dean stares at him open-mouthed and shocked and Sam snaps his hand to his dick and squeezes viciously tight and blows, creaming himself almost as quick as Dean did, and Dean reaches down with both hands and helps, squeezing at the base and riding the jerks of Sam's hips, both of them panting, their skin sticking together.

They stare at each other for a few seconds. "Holy shit," Dean breathes out, crumpling down. Sam wraps an arm around his back and kisses him, deep and thorough while their breath tries to even out, Dean's small nose bumping against his, his hand smearing wet over Dean's back. His fingers are still buried deep, little aftershocks clenching randomly inside, and he curls them again just to make Dean shudder up against him, to make him say _ah_ into Sam's mouth. Dean stretches out over him, trembling and small, his hands clutching into Sam's hair, and kisses him again, and it's only then Sam notices—

"Oh, shit," he says, pulling his head back. Dean's cheek gleams in the barely-there light, wet on his face. He slides his fingers out, carefully, sets his hand on Dean's hip. "Did I—"

Dean shakes his head, sniffing. "No, come on," he says, but his voice is thick even if he huffs a little laugh. Sam puts a thumb under his chin, pushing his face up so he can see, and Dean rolls his eyes. "Seriously, I'm okay. It was just—intense."

He's twining his fingers into the hair at Sam's nape, probably tangling it terribly, and little shivers keep rocking through him but he—maybe Sam believes him. "Four's a lot, huh?" he says, stroking a circle into Dean's hip, and Dean snorts.

"Yeah," he says. He pulls back and folds his arms on Sam's chest, propping himself up on Sam like he's a table. "Your fingers are a lot bigger than mine, too." Sam blinks, and Dean sighs at him. "You think I was going a month without anything? Dude, you're the one who keeps bitching about long showers."

"My mistake," Sam says. Jesus, that's an image.

He doesn't know what expression's on his own face, but it makes Dean huff again and then lean down to kiss him over his folded arms. "Horndog," he says, and Sam gives him a pointed look. "Hey, takes one to know one."

Sam's turn to roll his eyes, then. Dean squirms, trying to get more comfortable, and Sam works the awkward tangle of his pajama pants off where they'd been stuck around his knees and then drags a leg up to help him brace. He rests both hands on the small of Dean's back and sighs. They're probably going to end up stuck together at this rate. Who cares. Dean rests his head on his arms, the soft fluff of his hair brushing Sam's chin, and right at this second Sam doesn't mind, so much, that even with Dean laying on him flat out he can breathe.

"What happens if we can't change me back," Dean says, quiet. His eyes are closed.

Sam looks up at the ceiling, at his slowly turning fan. He's been deliberately disregarding the idea. Dean's always the pessimist, though, and he wonders if that's been part of his thoughts this whole time—the Mark safely disappeared to be some future problem, the two of them safe for now.

He tries to imagine it. A life, like this. Dean wouldn't enroll in junior high even if Sam offered him blowjobs every morning before he went—and isn't that an odd, queasy thought—so they'd have to dodge cops, make sure Dean didn't get noticed by anyone who wondered what a kid was doing wandering around out of school. They'd have to take up hunting again, because after a while Dean wouldn't be able to stand for sitting around and doing nothing, and that's a much worse thought, even if Sam knows Dean's able to handle himself, because—Dean's his partner. The strong shoulder he follows into a fight, the muscle at his back. It doesn't matter that they're adults, now, or that half the time Dean does what Sam tells him, or what their dynamic's like in bed. Dean's his big brother. He always will be. Sam's not ready to face a life where it's otherwise.

"We will," Sam says, making his voice firm. Dean doesn't move and so Sam slides a hand up to his neck, squeezes, makes Dean look at him. He doesn't look convinced. "We'll fix it, Dean. We always do."

Dean licks his lips, bites them, and Sam drags him up a few more inches for a kiss, coaxing him open and soft again. He gets a sigh, but Dean kisses back, and Sam takes the opportunity to be gentle. He's not losing his brother. Won't do it ever again, if he can help it, and damn the consequences.

In the meantime, however: he slips his hands down Dean's back to his thighs, and sits up and stands in a quick easy motion, carrying Dean along for the ride. There's a yelp in his ear, Dean's knees clenching against his hips. "Come on, short stuff," Sam says, while Dean pulls back to glare at him. "Time to hit the showers. You're all sticky."

Dean hooks an arm around his neck, though his expression's mulish. "Whose fault is that," he says, and then immediately, "Don't think you're getting away with this."

Sam shoves the door open with one foot, starts walking them down the bright hallways to the shower room. "Figure I ought to take the opportunity while I can." Dean rolls his eyes and shifts in Sam's grip, his thighs warm around Sam's waist, and Sam pats his ass. "See, I knew you'd be a good boy."

A little hand wraps in Sam's hair, curls threateningly tight. "Remember what I was saying earlier," Dean says into his ear, "about how no one would find your body," and Sam grins, lays a smacking kiss on Dean's forehead, completely ignores his grumbling. They'll be okay, he thinks. They always are.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/174300821274/capitulation)


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